


strike up the band, deprive my sleep ('cause there's no love like apathy)

by lovelypaul



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 04:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10153997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovelypaul/pseuds/lovelypaul
Summary: Paul goes to Kenwood to write music with John, and creates "Here, There, and Everywhere" while John sleeps.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is my first full-fledged fic, i guess. this was for the mclennon fanfic exchange, and this was one of the suggestions given to me. although the story for 'here, there, and everywhere,' was that paul wrote it outside while john was sleeping inside, the prompt specifically indicated that paul was nearby, so i did that. i also took matters into my own hands and kinda wrote some smut at the end... i apologize. in all honesty you should be blaming honey (@stonedlennon) because i asked her if i should and she said yes so... its not my fault lmao
> 
> nobody beta'd this... all the mistakes are mine and i tend to use tautology quite often so im sorry if you notice repetition. i just started writing for fun like two years ago so... im not the best at this. i was actually writing a different prompt for a few months until i was like "this is going nowhere" so i did this one instead. it might come back. who knows? 
> 
> the title is based off of the song 'i'm ready, i am' by the format... i love this song to death.
> 
> speaking of honey earlier... honey has been my personal motivation every since we became mutuals and i cannot thank her enough. shes such an amazing writer and everyone needs to check her stuff out.

The scenery of walking up the long, stone stairway that lead to Kenwood was something Paul wished he could record and keep somewhere so he could watch back it forever. The beautiful flowers were rich in color and the leaves were a healthy green, each twitched as the breeze flew by. The intricate brickwork was cracked and dated, small green shoots growing between them. But it reminded Paul of the streets and alleyways in Liverpool, the warm feeling of nostalgia tingling through his chest.

His guitar hung from across his shoulder, resting on his back. In his left hand was a small notepad and pencil. His cream-colored jumper creeped up his neck too far and it itched his skin slightly. His black trousers hung from his bony hips, clinging to his shins as the wind passed him. His black dress shoes clicked with each step, and Paul was convinced he was waking every living being in the neighborhood. 

As Paul had finally approached the front door, sudden memories of walking down Menlove Avenue and up to Mendips to songwrite with John flooded through his mind. He wondered if he knocked on the door to Kenwood, John’s Aunt Mimi would be there to shoo him away, insisting that John should be doing schoolwork instead of wasting his artistic talents on music. 

The sun had slowly crept up the midmorning sky, which was now a clear blue throughout. He had forgotten what time it was - perhaps it was too early to be knocking on John’s door. Especially during recording months like those, when the four had an opportunity to sleep in after weeks of a tight schedule. But Paul had discussed using this particular day to write something - he remembers it clearly. He had to double-check the date in his head to make sure he wasn’t incorrect.

He looked down to glance at his watch. It was eleven o’clock. That wasn’t too early, was it? Paul had been up for hours.

He paused a moment, focused his gaze on the door as he stood before it. John was probably still sleeping. The image clouded in his head - John, curled up under the duvet of the bed him and Cynthia shared, snoring softly, sunlight filtering through the blinds of the window and leaving warm stripes across his body. Paul smiled at the thought.

Paul slowly took steps closer to the door, taking his time, the image of John still clear. Some slow tune from a song he listened to when he was a teenager played through his mind, the slow beat matching the scene quite well. He wished that were the case, so he could enter the house and join him in the bed. The memory of sleeping in the same bed with John in Paris and while on tour made the desire burn deeper. He also wished he wasn’t feeling so awake.

As he lifted his hand to knock, he froze. He should turn around, go home, and let John sleep. He’d call him at a more appropriate time so they could reschedule the session to a later date. But the image was too inviting.

As his knuckles came in contact with the wood, the hairs on the back of his neck raised. Why was he so damn nervous? This was writing a song with John, something he had done hundreds of times since he joined the band years ago. This wasn’t talking to the headmaster at the Institute after behaving poorly when he was fifteen. 

A bird chirped from a nearby tree as he waited for someone to answer. He rocked back and forth from his heels to his toes, his hands sliding into the front pockets of his slacks. His lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes slightly hooded. 

It took unusually long for someone to answer, but when they did, the clicking of the lock made Paul plant his feet flat on the ground, forgetting about the bird and the image of John. Leaning on the doorframe was Cynthia, in her house clothes and her hair tied back in a tight knot. Her mouth was in a tight smile, arms crossed around her chest. Paul expected some sort of maid or nanny to answer the door, especially during those early hours. 

“Good Morning, Paul.” She started, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. She blinked slowly. 

“Good Morning, Cynthia. Is John awake?” Paul asked, tilting his head slightly. He should have been polite and asked how she was, but he was more concerned about John. But then again, wasn’t he always?

She shook her head slowly. “Unfortunately not. You’re welcome to come inside for some tea,” She offered, lifting her hand to gesture to the house. Paul frowned only faintly. 

“No, that’s okay. The weather’s nice, I think I’d rather wait out here,” He smiled. It felt weird speaking to her, as if the whole conversation was too formal. They’d known each other for years, but it felt only like a mutual relationship that was mainly through John.

Cynthia smiled back, shaking her head once again. “Don’t be silly. Come inside.”

Paul he kept his head low as he obliged and followed her inside. The house was incredibly tidy. Everything looked like it was in its proper place. No stray cups of old tea, no coats discarded on chairs from the evening before. It made Paul slightly uncomfortable. He was so used to a room being in some sort of disarray if John had recently been in it. 

Paul sat on the couch of the sitting room, focusing on whatever was under his fingernails instead of observing the room. Cynthia had made her way to the kitchen, her hair swaying as she walked. He heard her start up the kettle, doing whatever she needed to do to fix up tea. The air felt thick, none of John’s witty jokes to cut through it. 

Cynthia returned with a cup, placing it on the table before him. Paul muttered a word of thanks, smiling before he took a sip. She took a deep, shaky breath. “I told John I’d give you two some time alone to write and that, so I’m taking Julian to the park. Don’t burn the house down.”

Paul chuckled. “No guarantees,” He remembered the night in Hamburg that got them deported and his cheeks started to turn red. He thanked her for the tea once again and said goodbye. He waved and said hello to Julian as Cynthia carried him down the stairs. He pretended to drink the beverage until he watched the front door click closed.

He lifted himself from the couch to pour out the remaining tea, placing the cup on the counter. Lifting his guitar from off the floor, he took his paper in hand, placed the pencil behind his ear, and made his way to the staircase. He took a deep breath before slowly creeping up them. He tried his best to not make too much noise, tip-toeing his way up. It was much larger than his house on Cavendish, and even more confusing to get around. 

Each step he took made the wood creak below him, the echoes bouncing around every corner of the house. He physically cringed each time. Although, John probably couldn’t hear any of it.

Although he’s been in Kenwood many times, especially the bedroom, it took a little more brainpower in the morning to remember which doorway led to the right place. All of them were a dark sepia, matching the trimming of the outside. John probably liked that, Paul thought, having more of an artistic mind than him. 

As he approached the correct door, his eyes were glued to the doorknob. It was a pale gold, and he could see his reflection from the metallicness. He had a stain from the tea on the corner of his mouth. He slipped his thumb across his tongue and wiped it clean, drying it with the sleeve of his jumper. His nerves had settled, and he realized that it was probably the presence of Cyn that had made him uneasy. This was how he felt when they first went to America. He couldn’t do anything with him. Paul couldn’t experience it with _ John, _ but with John and Cynthia. He still hasn’t confronted him about it.

The knob felt cold to the touch. No one had probably opened it since Cynthia woke up. He grasped his whole hand around it, gripping it firmly. He stayed like that for too long, the conduction of heat turned the knob warm again.

He turned it slowly, the door squeaking loudly. God, it was even louder than his old bedroom door back on Forthlin when he would try to sneak John in during the late hours of the night. Then tired, cranky Jim would come in yelling at whoever interrupted his precious sleep. Teenage John would have to sleep on the couch downstairs. 

The room, like the house, was quite orderly. Everything, besides the bed, was placed in its official spot with care. Paul could even tell that someone had dusted. Throw pillows were placed neatly on a chair in the corner, and fresh clothes were folded on top of one of the dressers. The light cream walls were spotless, the carpet not even obstructed by footprints.

John lay in the bed, his back toward Paul. His shadow cast across the sheets and all the way to Paul’s feet, slowly shifting with each steady breath he took. His soft snoring was the only noise in the room, something Paul had been used to. The sunlight beamed down on his torso, his left arm exposed from the duvet. Paul would love to just  _ touch _ to see how warm his skin was. 

He took steps forward into the room, careful not to bump his guitar on the frame. He closed the door as softly as he could, the creaking only slightly quieter than before. He made his way over to one of the chairs in the corner, the one that was in the sun and unoccupied by decorative pillows. 

Paul leaned his guitar against the arm of the chair, catching a string on his finger. The noise that erupted made him whip his head around to sleeping John, who only stirred slightly. He sighed quietly in relief, placing his hands on his hips. 

As he sat down, his gaze was fixed on John. His mouth was slightly agape, his chest rising and falling with the steady rhythm of his breathing. 

God, Paul could write a whole novel on how beautiful John looked. He was so glad John didn’t bother wearing proper pyjamas, as it reminded Paul of the early days of sleeping in the same bed and feeling warmth of John’s skin on his back. 

As he opened the cover to his notebook and flipped to an empty page, he slid the pencil out from between his ear and his head. Paul didn’t notice before but the window had been opened, as a soft breeze made John’s hair rustle gently. It was recently cut shorter, something Brian had suggested to him as it was almost at his shoulders a few weeks ago. More desire to touch ran through him.

_ Running my hands through his hair.  _

The words flowed easily from his mind to the paper. He felt a force telling him to get up and lay beside John. Even though the feeling was strong, he stayed right where he was, biting his lip. He wished he could wake up to this sight every day, having John sleeping in the same room as him. Paul knows he’s most happiest when John’s there.

_ To lead a better life, I need my love to be here. _

He wrote that line before the first one, figuring it worked better as an opening. He also quickly scratched out the “his” and scrawled “her” instead, knowing that he couldn’t possibly keep that pronoun in. The other guys probably found out about the two of them just by the looks they give each other - how much could convince the world?

Something, probably a bird, raced past the window quite fast, the noise echoing through the large room. It made John stir enough to uncover his hands from the pillow. Paul loved John’s hands so much. He remembers watching them create chords as they sat in the parlour of his house, the veins popping out as he learned and applied them. 

_ Here, making each day of the year. Changing my life with the wave of her hand, nobody can deny that there’s something there.  _

Paul scratched out the first line he made before beginning a new verse.

_ There, running my hands through her hair. _

As Paul finished that line, he glanced up at John. His eyelashes had started to flutter, his mouth closing into a tight line. Paul smiled broadly. John rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of his index fingers, blinking rapidly. He probably couldn’t see a damn thing. 

John was startled as soon as he noticed some sort of being that didn’t look anything like Cynthia. He scrambled for his glasses on the bedside table and placed them on his nose. He let out a long sigh as soon as he saw Paul, that slowly faded to a wide smile. 

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Paul joked, crossing his legs in the chair. John scoffed, laying his head back onto the pillow, looking up at the ceiling. 

“Oh, shut up. It’s not even that late. What time is it?” John inquired, furrowing his thick brows. Paul glanced at his wristwatch.

“Half past eleven,” He informed him, shifting his weight gradually in the chair. He was itching to join John beside him.

“Oh, _ shit _ ,” John cursed, closing his eyes and slapping his hand on his forehead. “Is it really?” 

Paul chuckled, unbuckling his watch from his wrist. He gently tossed it to John, landing on the space next to him, “See for yourself.”

John pulled himself off from his back and sat up, his legs crossed Indian style. His hair was quite odd looking from sleeping, but Paul didn’t mind too much. He preferred it, even. He took Paul’s watch in his hand and focused intently on it. Even with the glasses, his vision was probably still shit due to just waking up. He frowned at the device. 

“Is Cyn still here?” John asked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Paul. Paul shook his head no.

“She said she was taking Julian to the park,” He told him, closing his notebook and holding it between his hands. “‘Guess she figured it would be better if we were alone. I don’t blame her.”

John smiled at the sudden quip. He moved to his left, leaving an open spot next to him on the bed. Paul didn’t move.

“Are you daft? Come ‘ead,” John ordered, waving his hands in a gesture to force him over. Paul placed his hands on each armrest, heaving himself up and off the chair. Placing the book on the table, he kicked off his shoes and moved onto the bed knees-first, noticing John shift to face him. John had gotten much thinner compared to the previous year, Paul noticed, each curve of skin making his fingers itch with want to  _ feel. _

“You’re coming into bed with clothes on?” John questioned, chuckling through his words. Paul rolled his eyes and slid his jumper off from his shoulders, tossing it onto the chair he previously sat in. He tugged his trousers off as well, throwing them to join his top. 

He finally crawled onto the bed, sliding into the spot with familiarity. It was warm from the sun and John’s body heat, instantly feeling inviting and like home. John pulled the covers over the two of them. There they laid, smiling and looking into each other’s eyes. The sunlight fell perfectly on John, his eyes glowing a light umber, complementing the hue of his hair. It almost looked red, the curls shining a soft orange.

_ I can touch him now,  _ He thinks suddenly. His hand slowly moved toward John’s head, hair filtering through his fingers. Even in its messy state, it felt so soft, so comforting. The lyric he wrote down wouldn’t escape his mind, going through different melodies and notes. All he needed was a chord, and he was set.

But suddenly John’s hand come to rest on the back of Paul’s neck, warm and supple. Paul noticed John staring at his lips as he licked them, the air thick and anticipating. It was Paul who closed the space between them, their lips connecting in an instant. The kiss wasn’t messy. It felt more intricate, like they wanted it to be perfect, like they wanted to remember it for a while. 

John hadn’t done his teeth yet, but Paul didn’t care. His lips were dry and chapped from sleep. They move so easily together, slow and gentle, slick noises of their mouths moving together filled the room. Both of Paul’s hands cupped John’s jaw, his thumbs rubbed the bottoms of his cheeks and his chin. One of John’s hands was on Paul’s shoulder, the other still on his neck. His tongue slid past Paul’s lip, and he opened up to John, letting him deepen and intensify the kiss. Their chests were now flush against each other, the hardness of John’s body sending tingles like fireworks through Paul’s skin.

Kissing John was like running a mile. It felt like it went on forever, like a rollercoaster that that went into an ongoing circle. When John broke it, he leaned his forehead to rest against Paul’s, their noses brushing slightly. Their deep breaths fell in sync, vicious pants that needed air that they had lost. That’s how that stayed for a few minutes, staring into each other’s eyes and smiling. If they blinked at the same time, their eyelashes would touch.

“Did ye’ write anything while I was asleep?” John asked, trailing his fingers along the ends of the hairs on the back of Paul’s neck, trying to ground him from whatever high John’s kiss put him on. That was another thing about kissing John. He felt like he was flying and nothing but him could bring him back down.

“Yeah, a little bit,” Paul answered, combing John’s hair away from his eyes. 

_ Watching her eyes and hoping I'm always there. _

“What have ye’ got so far?” 

_ “To lead a better life, I need my love to be here,”  _ Paul sang in a makeshift melody, his eyes fluttering closed as he did so. John was smiling, not saying a word. “What?”

“Keep going!”

“ _ Here, making each day of the year. Changing my life with the wave of his hand, nobody can deny that there’s something there.” _

“Her hand,” John corrected, the smile disappearing from his face. His serious tone sliced through the intimacy dancing through the air. Paul frowned.   


“I know. Hear me out.” Paul muttered, rolling his eyes. “ _ There, running my hands through his hair,  _ That’s all I’ve got, _ ”  _ John had started to smile again, and blinked only once.

“ _ Both of us thinking how good it can be,”  _ John joined in with his own made-up lyrics, matching the melody Paul had produced. Paul was satisfied with the sudden composed set of words.

“ _ Someone is speaking, but he doesn’t know she’s there,”  _ Paul continues, and John raises an eyebrow. “It’s a lyric, it doesn’t have to mean anythin’.”

John started humming the melody, Paul filling in with the words in his mind. He tried to come up with something else, but only got short, non-rhyming lyric ideas. He released John’s hair so he could get up from the bed. He grabbed the notebook, his eyes glancing over his guitar. He frowned, and John must have noticed.

“Sod the bloody guitar. We can do that bit later,” John blurted.

Paul returned to his spot on the bed, opening up to the page he had been working on. He scrawled down the lyrics the two made up, smiling to himself as he did so.

Suddenly, as Paul looked up, John planted a small, chaste kiss on his lips. It immediately made Paul flush, and John chuckled quietly.  _ “I need him everywhere,” _ He starts.

_ “And if he’s beside me I know I need never care. But to want him is to need him, everywhere,”  _ Paul continues,  _ “Knowing that love is to share,”  _

John had taken the notebook and began to write in the words, before pausing,  _ “But to love him is to need him,”  _ He suggested, and Paul nodded. He thought for a moment while John scrawled on the paper. John’s handwriting stuck out immediately, the short scribbles distinctly different from Paul’s neat script.

_ “Each one believing that love never dies. Watching his eyes and hoping I’m always there,”  _ John wrote more, and looked up at Paul. They were both smiling again. It was no number one radio hit but it was definitely a special song Paul would never forget. Their eyes burned with emotion, and Paul, for once, couldn’t tell what he was feeling.

John grabbed Paul by the shoulders and brought them together again, this kiss more messy and meaningful. It was deepened almost immediately, their heads tilted at an angle, tongues dancing in each other’s mouths and teeth clacking. 

John’s right hand left Paul’s shoulder and started to move down his chest, feeling over every curve and bend slowly. He stopped right above the waistband of Paul’s underwear, breaking the kiss only to give him a look of wanting. “You up for a shag?” 

When Paul nodded, John’s face lit up and he started to palm him through his undershorts. The feeling made him shudder and Paul clashed their mouths again, placing his hands on John’s hips. He pulled him closer, his fingers itching with need. Paul was already half-hard, the urge to be touched aching through him. But John was holding back, he could tell. 

“Come on, Johnny, don’t you dare tease me,” Paul mumbled in between kisses, moving his hands between John’s waist and hips. John chuckled, positioning his head to be closer to Paul’s neck. Paul tilted his head to the side, giving John full access. He started to bite and suck at the skin, small red marks being left behind due to the blood rushing to the spot. Paul let out short noises of pleasure, his eyes squeezed shut.

John finally dipped his hand into Paul’s underwear, grabbing the base of his cock. Paul moaned deeply, but it was soon muffled by John’s mouth on his own once again. The speed of Paul’s breathes had picked up increasingly when John’s thumb slid over the slit, gasping with pleasure. Paul was fully hard now. John did that action once again, a long moan dragging out of Paul’s throat, although it was muffled by John’s lips. 

As soon and John broke away, Paul made a short, high-pitched noise that showed just how desperate he was. John giggled immediately, and made Paul flush. He began sliding off his last remainder of clothing and discarded it to the floor. Paul moved to lay against the headboard, hair plastered to his forehead with sudden sweat and his mouth slightly agape. He looked so vulnerable - helpless, even - that John could do anything and just claim him.

John crawled his way up the bed, his arms sliding teasingly up Paul’s legs. The harsh feeling of calloused fingers on smooth skin made Paul quiver, his eyes fluttering and his mouth hung open. John started to suck on the skin in between his thighs, his hands holding a firm grip on Paul’s hips. The sensation made him shake.

John started to mouth at the base of Paul’s stomach, the small thatch of hair brushing his chin. He glanced up at Paul with heavy bed eyes, the look only few get to see. The sight made Paul forget everything-the time, what day it was, what he was even doing there-until he remembered he was aching for relief.  “Fuck, John, get  _ on with it.” _

John chuckled and finally positioned his head in front of Paul’s cock, flattening his tongue and licked a stripe from base to tip, his hand moving to grip the top of Paul’s thigh. His nails slightly dug into the skin, but it wasn’t enough to distract him from the lack of attention John was giving him. He took the head in his mouth, gliding his tongue across the top and pumping his arm at the bottom. He could feel him at the back of John’s throat and Paul let out a long, low-pitched groan, throwing his head back against the wood behind him, his eyes closing again. The pleasure was blinding, white heat spreading through his body.

Paul slowly snaked a hand through John’s hair, grabbing and pulling it in his hand. “Fuck, John,” Paul slurred, the words hanging in the air. John took his whole erection in his mouth again, hollowing out his cheeks and bobbing up and down in an unsteady rhythm, leaving Paul’s other hand gripping the soft bedsheets. “Oh, Johnny, _ fuck _ .” 

John hummed some sort of response around Paul’s cock and the reverberations sent shivers up Paul’s spine. John’s other hand released Paul’s thigh and he slipped a finger into that ring of muscles behind his balls, his cock twitching in John’s mouth and Paul lost it, all trains of thought gone, lines of curses and profanities rippling through the hot air, mixing with the slick noises John’s mouth made. John pushed his mouth farther down Paul’s length, one hand fucking his arsehole with his fingers, the other digging into the base of Paul’s hip. If he were to pull any harder on John’s hair, he might go bald. 

Paul could feel his orgasm start to rip through him, the need to finish making him feel numb and weightless. “I’m close, I’m close,” John pressed another finger through his arsehole, sliding his tongue across the slit of Paul’s cock. Paul’s breathing audibly hitched and he moaned once again, his hand gripping and un-gripping the gathered sheets so hard, his knuckles turning white. It was the dark look John gave him as he opened his eyes that sent him over the edge.

He came into John’s mouth with a shout as he swallowed around his length. The sensation was paralyzing, white stars flying around the edges of his vision. He breathed deeply as he came down from his climax and brought John up to kiss him, lips sliding past each other lazily. John’s hand cupped Paul’s jaw as he breathed through his nose deeply, Paul’s hand sliding up and down John’s neck. The coarse rubbing of stubble against Paul’s freshly shaven face was electrifying. Paul realized John was hard the front of his jocks were dampened. Paul chuckled and smiled slowly. 

“Would you like some help with that?” Paul asked, John’s eyes blown dark and wide with arousal. His mouth was red and wet, hair wild and unkempt. Paul rubbed his hand against John’s hardness.    
“Would I ever,” 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr! (@lovelypaul) i like to draw n stuff so check out my art.


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